


Fallout New Vegas: Digging two graves.

by Adam_Typing



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Gen, Novelization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 22:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adam_Typing/pseuds/Adam_Typing





	Fallout New Vegas: Digging two graves.

 

Dust.

 

She tastes dust in her mouth as her eyes flicker open. She winces as the distant lights stab into her eyes, before she finally manages to force them open, and gaze out over the desolate vista of the Mojave Wastes.

 

She can hear a crunching noise that makes her throbbing headache even worse, and people speaking in argumentative tones. When she tries to rise, she finds her hands bound, the rope digging into the skin. The talking stops and she notices the smudge shadows in front of her. Several move away and one takes a step forward, shoes disturbing the dirt, kicking up small clouds in his path. The voices argue again, and one cuts across the others, calm and measured.

 

A cigarette hits the floor, a small mote of gold, and the neat shoes stamp it out. She sees the gleam of silver in the air, being drawn out from beneath the neatly pressed jacket. Eyes clear enough to see an unremarkable man in front of her, smartly dressed, standing casually before the prone figure. The silver in his hands is a disc, a casino chip, oversized and gleaming in the distant light of a distant city.

 

“Sorry you got mixed up in this, kid. But you've just made your last delivery. I know, it seems like an eighteen-carat run of bad luck, but... Well...”

 

The man slips the disk away, and the flash of light, that makes the groggy girl wince, is replaced with another gleaming object.

 

“The game was rigged from the start.”

 

The prone figure pushes herself up, groaning, and sees the handgun go off, twin plumes of gold-

 

The figure is dragged into the shallow grave.

 

The others begin to sift dirt over her.

 

And a distant shape watches them all, a constant smile on his face.

 

He goes to help.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Hold her still, I need to remove the-”_

 

“ _How the hell is she still alive, doc?”_

 

“ _Brow bone is pretty thick. Right angle, first round might deflect, leave a nasty mark-”_

  
“ _And the second?”_

 

“ _Grazed her pretty close.... I said hold her still!”_

 

* * *

 

 

Doc Mitchell sits by his patient, sucking the cigarette end. The smoke makes strange patterns in the lamp light, and he breathes out a sheet of grey into the air, before stubbing it out, and putting the tray to one side.

 

His patient is a young woman, perhaps early twenties. She's slim, lithe. Definitely seen trouble by the scars that mark her, and the callous of her hands are the marks of someone used to carrying handguns, especially the little scar that runs between thumb and forefinger. She stirs, groaning, her breath dry and hoarse.

 

Mitchell leans close, looking up at the valuable morphine drip that he's linked up to her. It's one of the rare few he has left in stock.... He'll need to brew something new, or trade for replacements. And he's giving it to a stranger that was dragged to his doorstep in the middle of the night.

 

She lets out a rasping breath again, coughing up thin, sticky strands of saliva across the pillow. Her eyes begin to flicker open, and she groans, her chest heaving with breath. Her eyes are blurred, unfocused, and it takes an effort to look around.

 

“Easy, miss, easy. You mightn't want to move for a little while,” he cautions, holds up a chipped cup for her. The water is clear, clean, and she raises a shaking hand. Most of it goes on the floor and the bedsheet, but she gets a few, blessed mouthfuls, and licks her lips. She stares up at him, dark eyes flicking around the room.

 

“I... is this a hospital?”

  
“Somethin' like it, I guess. Name's Doc Mitchell.... I helped patch you up, miss,” He murmurs, taking the cup back, and rising to get more. She watches him, and blinks a few times. Focusing is hard, and her head feels like it is splitting. Her hand goes up to her forehead, to touch at the source of the skull cracking agony.

 

“Don't touch it, kid. Don't want you harmin' yourself any more than you have been. You were lucky that those bullets mostly deflected. Some fragments got in, but I managed to dig them out.”

  
The girl's eyes widen for a moment, then she winces. Pain blooms behind her eyes for a brief moment, before the it slowly fades away.

 

“I... I was shot, on the hill.... right? Two rounds, that range... I should be-”

 

“Should have cracked your skull open. But, you got lucky. Poor light, bad rounds, wrong angle.... all adds up to those slugs leaving you out cold and bleeding.”

 

He sets the cup by the small cabinet, smiling, and holds up a dish for her to see. There are small, copper fragments rolling around in it, faintly gleaming in the low light from the lamps. She sighs, and stares at him.

 

“How long have I been out?”

 

“'Bout three days. We patched you up, but bed rest would be for the best, miss. Might be a bit unsteady on your feet,” the doctor set the dish aside, and sits back, chair creaking beneath him. He's old, the girl thinks, with a face weathered and beaten by the sun, and hair turned grey by the years and stress. He has a weary smile though, and it makes her feel a little more at ease.

 

He rises to try and stop her as she sits up, eyes clenching shut as pain blooms across her temples.

 

“How long til I can start walking, doc?”

 

Doctor Mitchell lets out a low, brief sigh, scratching at his jawline. He looks at a scrawled notepad beside her bed, and marks something down with a worn nub that's barely a pencil anymore.  


“Maybe another couple of hours, maybe tomorrow, maybe never, miss. But... Well, I'd say fairly soon, not to mess you around.”

 

“Crowe....”

 

Mitchell looks up from his notes, sees her sitting on the bed end. She's checking the drip hooked to her arm, clenching her hands and rolling her shoulders as if limbering up for exercise.

  
“You can call me Crowe. Ma thought it would a good name. She was... straightforward in what she called things... Now, did the bastard who shot me also take my things or did they decide to find someone else to belong to?”

 

Mitchell lets out a chuckle, and nods to one corner of the room, at an open crate.

 

“Everythin' on ya's in that box. Coat, satchel, few wanderer's tools. And a token for a courier's office.... Miss Crowe, you shouldn't really be moving. That head wound mightn't be too bad to look at, but it's... likely to cause complications, if you disturb it too much.”

 

Crowe regards him with narrowed eyes, and a downturn to her lips. She sighs, nods, and setles back.

 

“Tomorrow, doctor. Tomorrow, I'm up. That alright?”

  
He catches sight of that expression, and sighs.

 

That's the look of madmen and vengeful souls.

 

It's not likely he can convince her otherwise, so he nods to her, rises to go to his own bed. She calls after him before he leaves.

 

“I almost forgot, and ma would skin me if I didn't say it... but thanks, doctor. You didn't have to help me.”

 

The old man smiles at her, and shrugs.

 

“World's cruel enough as it is, miss Crowe.... People should be willing to try and make things better, not worse. Just doin' my bit, really. Besides....”

 

He jerks his head to the windows, and she sees a light gleam through, something close and big.

 

“You'll meet the one who helped ya out properly tomorrow, if you're so inclined. Thank him too.”

 

Crowe settles back, and closes her eyes. She takes deep breathes, focusing and quelling the pain beneath her skull. Just like Ma had taught her. She had been taught well... not just manners and letters and numbers... but the finer skills, like gunplay, lockpicking and how to move quickly. Of course, such talents had earnt her work and a little notoriety, which went a long way.

 

She doesn't need long to fall asleep and Doctor Mitchell lets out a sigh as she does. He glances around, and realises that Crowe's more than likely to run off and pursue her assailants, and he knows she'll need a little help. So he digs into an old box, and uncurls a cloth that he's bundled together, containing a few old mementos. He sets about cleaning up, and glances over at his patient.

 

And he suddenly has a pang of pity for the lot that left her to die.

 

He had a feeling they would be very unpleasantly surprised.


End file.
